


Discrepancy

by WhisperOfTheDay



Series: Grim Pictures In Beautiful Colours [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, Ghost Drifting, Nightmares, No Plot/Plotless, Prologue, written as gen; can be read as whatever, you might struggle to understand what is happening but try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperOfTheDay/pseuds/WhisperOfTheDay
Summary: It will never let them go, the feeling that something doesn't end up
Relationships: Newton Geiszler & Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: Grim Pictures In Beautiful Colours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590229
Kudos: 7





	Discrepancy

A wave of pure terror mixed with unguarded animalistic rage woke him up with a start. A shrill scream rang through the walls. 

Hermann rasped and coughed, then swallowed air, still reeling from the nightmare, confused and afraid out of his wits, but not seeing clearly what it was that scared him. His throat felt scorched, and face sticky from sweat and.. tears, apparently. 

His arms shook as he slid his legs off the bed carefully but quickly, reaching to turn the bedside lamp on. The small bunk coloured into a soft orange hue. Metal table reflected the dimmed light, on it- papers and folders, neatly stoked in piles. The grey wardrobe, the black therapeutic office chair, the hideous dull green carpet as old as his uncle, the Cayote Tango figurine Mako gifted him with on his 32nd birthday- everything was in it's rightful place. A solid proof of this being real.

Hermann bent forward, placed elbows on his knees and chin on folded hands, focusing on evening out his breathing. It was surprisingly easy, since there were only ghosts of the fear and pain remaining. They were dissolving faster than he could grasp them. With them, slowly fading to the background were other feelings that he managed to decipher- fascination, hate, curiosity, commitment. 

None of them were real. _They were not real._ Hermann wiped his cheeks. Pointless action since they were dry.

He looked at his hands, baffled. Then touched under his eyes again. He could swear a second ago he felf embarrassing wetness there, hot and tingy. He... he still did.

  
Two contradictory thoughts unraveled as he dug deeper into remnats of the dream, into his own consciousness that now was a 10 times times more expanded and horrifyingly uncharted than mere 2 weeks ago. The thoughts were emotions, rather, and they cried, loudly, equally strong, consumed every cell of their being, nothing existed but those two verities

  
_killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill_

_it's gonna kill me_

Gottlieb could swear his eyes must have rounded and widened comically just like in old american cartoons.

  
_They were never real for me._

He came to his senses already standing, momentarily paralysed, his back sending waves of pain up his spinal cord into the anterior cortex. It faded slowly, taking it's time, which Hermann couldn't waste right now.

He relaxed his iron grip on the table opposite the bed, which he apparently colided with in his haste, looking around for the cane. He couldn't care less for looking inappropriate in his sleeping wear- a long-sleeved pullover, shorts and socks- when he only needed to cross the lab. He couldn't care about anything, really, not when flashes of vibrant blue behind his eyelids got too evident now that he knew what to look for, not when his hands shook with fear rooted deep into the person he came to see as his closest friend.

_please_

_let me write one e-mail_

_i won't tell him_

Gottlieb opened the creaky door to the main lab space, closing it behind him on autopilot, and carefully but urgently rounded the surgery table and stepped over messy cables. Repulsion, anger and dread were added to the mix of things preventing him from standing firmly on his feet as his eyes landed and lingered on the hideous _brilliant_ handmade Pons bridge which had been brought back here despite his objection. It seemed like it was glowing in dim night-light, waiting and tempting and reminding. 

It needed to be dismantled in shortest order, Hermann thought briefly. Along with Mutavore's secondary brain. Though, thankfully, that one was out of their reach, in containment somewhere on Pitcairn.

By the time that train of thought reached its satisfying conclusion, Hermann was already by the door to Newt's room.

He invited himself in without knocking, the metal door soundless and weightless, to see only emptiness and darkness. The space in front of him was pitch black, there was literally nothing there.

Warm yet warning green hue illuminated the right side of his face and the hand on the wooden door handle. He turned.

The specimen tank stood amidst the lab, dovoid of any contents but the poisonous concoction of chemicals, shining neon. The were words- _one word_ \- written on it in red

_blood?_

  
_no, blood's blue_

  
Thunder roared above, or were these footsteps? 

Metal cringed, buildings fell, flesh tore apart and assembled back together

roar and screams mixed, or was it laughter? was it moaning? if they were made can they be called born? each time, anew, or once? if so, can they be conscious? if they're conscious, they're alive, because Descartes said-

claws reached out and pushed the atrocity's barely surfaced screaming head back underneath the water, back into darkness, back into submission

_**follow** _

_**t h e** _

_**directive** _

**Fͭͥͧ̿͐͏̥͕͇̖**  
**͈̞̰̰̲̳̘͒ͥ̅ͨ̓͟Ȏ̱̝̪̳͈͐̊̾̉̇̚**  
**̥͈̯͓̖̺́͐̎͌Ļ̩͚͍̫ͪ̐**  
**̫ͭͬ́͌͂̚ͅL̙̘̮͇̭̱͎ͥ**  
**̈́͆̅ͬ̈O͚̰͎͈̟̯ͣ̈́͐͠ͅ**  
**̭̂̌̒W̿̄̉͂͐҉̹͉̳͔̞̯͍ ̄̈ͨ̕T̬͇̤̹̣̘̈̔̏ͥ̚H̫ͬ͋͗̎̒Ė̪̣̦̙̥̹ͯ̈ ̵̲ͯ̔ͥ̽̑̈̍D͖̯̹͍̩͍̤̐̾ͩͬ̎Ì̻̱̗̗͉̍̍̐̃͌ͅR̼͙̼̯̻È͈̭̲̪̬͆̓C͉̫͛̋͆ͦͦ̅Tͤ̈҉͚̝̰I̭͕͚̳̣͛̿̿͒̇͡V̵͙̇ͩE̹̮͙ͩ͑ͪ̀ͪ**

y̵̡̡̢̡̨̨̛̛̻̰̪̟̗̭͎͚̬͍̤̫̻̟̮̲͔̩̖̥͍̠̯̖͈̤̹͓̺̻̙̟̜̹͚̘̭̻̼͈͕͉̞̠̘͆̀̃͊̾͋̎̍̐̄͆͋̌̊̉̽̐̾̄̑̉̈́̽͂̄̎̓̌̅͋͊͛͂̍̽͘̕̚͜͝͝ͅͅͅo̶̢̡̢̡̪̩̖͔̱̘̲̹͙̹͚͖̩͎͉̞̗̣̝̤͕̦͎͈̳̲̼̝̤̼̻̥͓͙̖̖̝̜̤̩͓̓̀͜ͅͅͅͅu̵̡̡̢̢̢̖̬̝̙̝̤̟̙̤͕̼̖͙̬̩͔͙͊͆̇̈́͑͑̃̽̔̆͐̇̌̓̊͋̈́̊̇̈̿̉̎̏̔͐͑̑̈̋̾̎͋̍̃̄͌̄̇͋̊̀̏͛͆̍͐̐͌̾̏̋̃͛̆͘͘͘̕͘̚͠ͅ ̸̡̢̢̨̢̛̛̜̬͖̝̦̰̹͔̞̖̥̝̻͕͉̺̪͔̜̮̼͍̖̪͍̞̥͈̳̝̰̝̪͙̥̠͔̣͓̫̝̟͉̪̫̬̖̥͕̜͖̻̦̰̻͓̱̈͒̈́͋̓̂͊̑̃͊͌̎̆̒̌̒̔͐̏̈́͌͐̐̀̎̆͋͌̂̏̌͆͐̽̅̇̃̂͆͊͐̈́̃̌͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͜͜͜͝w̶̨̡̢̹̰͓̠̲̗̝͚͉̠̦͈̣͙͆͛̋̏͒̊̈́͂̏̍̽͆̈̈̓͘̕͜͠ͅǫ̶̡̨̨̛̱̝̜̪͍͇̗̥̦̲͈̥̮͈̭̜̥͙̯͇͙̳̪̦̯͚̗͕̹̩͍͔͇̻͚̻͖̘̰̣͇͎̥͓̯̘̜͎̖̍͐̓̎̎͂̎̅͋͋̒̾̓͆͛̈́́̒̂̋̎̇̚͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅn̸̢̨̢̨̛̛̛̫͚̝̪̩̯̘̥̘̘͍̠̘͖͍͚̜̲͔̼͇̠̪̻͖̻̘̙̮̟͔͙̳̠̜̦̠̬̞̺̲̲̜̱̩̥͔̼̻̥͖̩͎̪̯͇̻͖̰̮̦̑̀̀̾̈̽̐͆͌̇́̓̔̍͗̆͋͋͗̓̈́̈́͌̓̎͜ͅͅͅ'̴̡̫̤͉̙͔̩͙̭̼̬̟̬̋́̇͋̑̓̇͂̓̄̏́̋̀̀͛̋̎̑͊͌̔͋̒̐͌͂͂̾̃̆̇͐̆̀̑͌̿̽̌͊͐̂͆̿̾̈́̏͑͋͘͘̕̚̕͘͠͝͠͝͝ţ̵̛̩̞̯̩͖͖̩͍̼͙͉̺̺͖̘̖͓̹͈̗͓̯͇̱́̓͒̔̒̎͑̎̉͋̒̓͒̅̀̅͗̈́̋͋̆͋͐̽͛͒̐̉̍̃͑̑̿͌̃̈́̽̈́͌͑̈͆͒̏̈͘̕̚̕̚͘͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅ ̸̨̢̨̧̧̡̭͕͕̳̹̱̮͚̟̼͈̻͈̳̲̙̬͙̙̘̻̜̠̘̙͇͍̤̯͓̺̞͔̿̇̃͆̈͋̌̇͗̉̊̉̌̅̓̆͑̄̽̇͑͗̆̈̍͌̏̊͆͋̊̆̅̈́͗͂͛̍̄̇̊͋̿̀͆̋̌̀̆̔̽̿̌̚͘̕͘̕̕ͅf̵̨̧̧̨̞͔͚̘̭͇̜̥̣͉̜͚̅̽͑̅̈̊̅͑̌͊̔͌͑̑̄̈́̂̇̓͜ą̸̧̨̧̢̡̧̮̞̗̼̫̮͖̱̙̭̼̭̥͚̱̻̰͉̰̙̭̜̼̟̳̯͖͓̹͎̺̟̫̦͈̘̖̬̮̠͖̘͖̣͕͕̼̮̻̤̩͊̓̀̋͒̏̾͘͜͝͝͝į̴̡̧̢̢̢̨͖̱̳͙̻͎͍̗͈̞̖͕̣̝̘͉͓̳̭͉̬̜̙̦̳͇̘̞̘̗̖̳̼̤͍̮͖͍͓̥̭͉̪̻̙̭͕̟̠̙͎͛̃̔͛͗̓̉̈́͂͋̂̍̐̿͒͆̎̐̏̂̑̆͛̿̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝ĺ̴̨̨̡̬̹͓͈̝̭̣̺̥͇̪̱̜̳̘̹̻͉̗̩̣̻͕̰̱͉͉̟͓̣̜͙̱̰̺͈̰̫̰̮̟̯̘̰̠͙̰̳̭̣̼͚̳̥̤͖̦͔̫͍͖ͅͅͅ

  
Bed sheets trap his flailing limbs as he fights to get up, not a sound escaping his desert dry throat. Once free, he sprints out of bed and crosses the small room, hands trembling as he hectically clicks the locks on the window undone, throwing it wide open.

The freezing Arctic air hits him like avalanche. The wind is pulsating, an erratic heartbeat, each push biting at his feverishly hot feeble frame. The rush of virgin oxigen does nothing to his clogged throat.

Darkness erupts in Newton's vission at the drop in blood preassure from standing too abruptly. The spots dance and shift and pull at his mind painfully, nauseating. He leans forward with both arms on the window sill. Each inhale tightens his chest, as if a layer of frost encases his insides, subzero temperatures travelling down his bronchial tubes. 

The dizziness doesn't melt away as quick as it should, and he finds himself slowly sliding down to the floor. He sits, back to the wall, wind angrily ruffling the hair on top of his head. The churning in his stomach topples over the line of bearable and he doubles over, heaving, but nothing comes up. His back hurts

Newt crawls on four to the desk drawer, grumbling in annoyance, pulls out a few papers, pen and a paper holder, flops on his stomach on the green carpet that's as old as his parents, and starts sketching

* * *

"Hermann?"

"Hm?"

"N-nothing. Just wanted to check if you're still here."

"Okay," he said. They were sitting on the floor in the darkness of Newt's room, backs to the side of the bed. Close enough to hear every intake, but not touching.

Whatever, breathing and heartbeats were in synch anyway, however cheesy it sounds. The air around was fizzing with fear that awoke them.

"Sorry for this."

"You apologise again and my cane will get acquainted with your nose."

"Wow. Never thought you to be the one for empty threats," Newt grinned at Hermann, relieved to see outlines of a smile on his face, even in this dark.

"Oh, you know. Been obtaining new, what do you call it.. quirks, as of late. I'm considering bying a Walkman."

Newton wowed again, more animated. "Great idea, I know good ones. Tested dozens of them out over the years."

Gottlieb noded curtly in agreement, smile tugging at his lips despite his ever gloomy exterior.

"I've noticed you cursing more than usual, dude," Newt said, "That's funny actually-"

" _Yes_ , very funny. And you seem to finally support the honorary degrees you claim to have, behaving like a professional, occasionally, at least. Using scientific terminology, extended vocabulary and actually correcting grammar mistakes _yourself_ in our articles. Good to know credit for that change goes to me."

"Oh your ego's endless. Don't you forget, I was the one who had that world-saving idea, so I'm the ultimate winner of the smartest guy in the lab contest. In your face, dude, you won't have a chance to measure up to that any more."

There was a smile on Newt's face, unmistakably smug and daring, waiting for a come-back, waiting for a counter argument, waiting for something -someone- to test his wits, brashness and knowledge. Well, waiting for Hermann to hop on the ride

the picture didn't glitch, or fade away. The look in his friend's eyes was realistic, alive enough. what tipped hermann off was his own voice of reason, quietly asking for him to stop playing pretend, hurting himself with such intensity as if he deserved to be hurt.

Newt's face fell. he lowered his eyes, lips pressed into thin line, corners slightly up. he hummed in agreement.

the nightmare was still slithering like a sea serpent in the shadowed parts of the room, as stood glistering blues and purples behind his eyes. Herman turned away. closed his eyes. the room dissolved into nothing, the memory pushed to the back of his head where it belonged. 

the serpent hid back into the depths as well. only its eyes kept glowing.

waiting. warning. watching over. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been slowly writing bits of this series for over a year, but I'm still not sure if i should spend time on it. The draft of this here fic was to be deleted tomorrow, so i said screw it, it's already written and edited, even if I'm having second thoughts. See this weird plotless thing as a prologue with hints to possible future stuff, an introduction to the messed up world of GPIBC :')
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, I'd love to hear what you make of this. Have an awesome day ♡


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